You Know How It Always Upset Mummy
by StrawberryFields4EverAndAlways
Summary: It seemed like another taunting, but otherwise offhanded remark from Mycroft.  But was it?  Take a look into the relationship between Sherlock, Mycroft, and their long-suffering mother, Lenora.  Oneshot.  No ships.


**Disclaimer: Some stuff about me not owning Sherlock.**

"You know how it always upset Mummy," said Mycroft blithely in regards to their squabbles with a nearly imperceptible sneer, leaning on his umbrella.

To someone who didn't know what had happened more than twenty years before, in the winter of 1986, like John or even Anthea, the remark seemed immature, but innocent enough. But Sherlock knew that it was a direct jab at him, knew that his brother still blamed him for what had come to pass.

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People always asked Lenora Holmes if her husband was beating her. She denied this vehemently, and her beloved James would never hurt her. Lenora told everyone that fretted over her scratches and bruises that she was very clumsy, always falling down or bumping into things. She didn't want anyone to know that her five-year-old was to blame.

Her elder son, Mycroft, was the perfect son. He was twelve and got excellent marks at school. He was considerate and polite, and all around the sort of child that all mothers wish for. Lenora's second son, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. Sherlock, five, was practically demonic in nature, an apparently heartless child that did nothing but hurt. The contrast between the two was startling.

Sherlock had been an accidental baby, a failure of birth control, and Lenora was certain there was something wrong with him, mentally. He hadn't learned to speak until he was nearly four, and his fine motor skills were definitely off. Sherlock often couldn't pick up small objects, and forget about being able to use any sort of writing implement. Mycroft had tried teaching him how to use a crayon to draw a picture one day, but soon grew frustrated when Sherlock couldn't so much as hold onto the bit of wax for more than a few seconds before it slipped out of his little hand.

But the child was violent, and it was clear that he had no understanding of emotions or interpersonal relationships. Because of his viciousness, Sherlock had been expelled from three different kindergartens in one year. The first two schools cited extreme disruptiveness and verbal cruelty to the teacher and other students. But the last one had him removed because he had bitten another student, a girl named Tamsen Weber, just because she'd gotten on his nerves.

"H-he looked so l-lonesome, and I only w-wanted to be his friend," the little girl had sobbed, holding her arm.

This last school told Lenora and her husband that the boy was a menace to normal children and should be put away. Though it pained Lenora to do it, the Holmeses enrolled their son in a school for troubled children, and set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, something they should have done long before.

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"I'm not going! You can't make me," shrieked Sherlock at the top of his lungs on the day of his appointment.

"Yes…I…can! I'm…your…mother," grunted Lenora, trying to stuff a writhing Sherlock into his jacket. She really wished James didn't have to work so much and could help her. A wildly swinging fist made contact with Lenora's right eye. Hard. She yelped and lurched away, clutching her face, eyes closed, trying not to cry. When she opened the non-struck eye, Lenora saw her son staring at her, not looking remorseful, but perplexed by his actions. Not moving her hand from her face, she crept back over to her little son, now perfectly still. Lenora pulled his jacket on the rest of the way and cupped his face, small, pale, and thin, in her hand. She did not say anything, but her uncovered eye asked, "Why do you do these things to me?"

Sherlock gave no answer, and his mother got to her feet and dragged him to the car.

%%%

"You may come back in, now, Mrs. Holmes," called the psychiatrist from inside his office.

Lenora entered the room, and the psychiatrist, Dr. Barlow, smiled gently at her as she came in. Sherlock was sitting on the big leather couch, looking so tiny and out of place. His mum sat beside him, though they sat apart and did not act like a mother and son.

"Mrs. Holmes, you probably know this by now, but your boy here is no ordinary child."

Lenora looked at him incredulously. "Yes, Sherlock IS different. And the sky is blue. And Thatcher's Prime Minister. And the bloody Earth goes around the bloody sun. You can't possibly tell me that's all you worked out after an hour and a half."

Dr. Barlow looked somewhat offended, but said, "No. Not nearly all. Mrs. Holmes, your son is a sociopath."

The diagnosis hit her like a tonne of bricks, and she felt like she was in a fog as Dr. Barlow explained his results. It wasn't surprising as much as worrisome. "And what can he do?" she asked in a whisper.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What does this mean for Sherlock's future? What can he do with his life?"

The doctor started laughing and telling jokes. "Do? Other than be detrimental to society? Not much, Mrs. Holmes. Though I've heard tell that serial killers make a lot nowadays."

Lenora knew it wasn't meant to be hurtful, but she was highly insulted nonetheless. He's just joking, she told herself again and again as he prattled on and on, but she tensed up nonetheless, her face growing hot with rage.

Suddenly, a small voice next to her said, "Mummy? Mummy? Lenora? You're hurting my hand." Lenora looked down and found that she was squeezing the life out of Sherlock's hand. She let go of her son's hand, and looked down sadly at the little child, looking so innocent just sitting there, his feet dangling far from the floor, looking back at her with big blue eyes that now contained- Was that fear she saw? Oh, no. That wouldn't do. His mummy was there, and it was her job to protect him from these cruel "jokes."

She stood, and Sherlock did, too. "I have had quite enough of you making a mockery of my son's future. I promise you, Dr. Barlow, that Sherlock Holmes will make himself great. He will defy your expectations, you'll see. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be going now. I have a son to untraumatize."

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That night, Lenora tucked Sherlock into bed, and she asked, "Do you want me to tell you a story?" Sherlock shrugged. His mother let out a sigh, growing even more convinced that nothing she could do would ever please him. "I'll take that as a yes. Well, one day, I had a baby. The little baby was a boy, and he had a little tuft of blond hair so light, you could almost call it white. He had ten fingers and ten toes, and all the other important stuff. You were perfect, but you were missing something. A name. Now, your father and I had fun naming you and your brother. With a common name like Holmes, we thought we might as well get a little crazy. We named Mycroft after the pub we met at, but we later found out that it meant something about the function of water and enclosed land used for farming, or something like that. We didn't know what to name the new baby at first, but we were so taken by your hair, that we started looking through books for a name that fit it. Finally, we found a name that meant "fair-haired"- Sherlock. We made it official, and then all your straight blond hair fell out. Then, as if just to spite us and our choice of name, your hair grew back in curly and- Jet. Black. So congratulations, young man, you're a human misnomer."

He looked up at her strangely. "Are you done?"

Lenora sighed. "Yes. I'm leaving now. Goodnight."

Little Sherlock said nothing as his mother left his room. Lenora did what she did most nights- she went into the bathroom, and, completely alone, she cried. Her younger son ripped her heart to shreds every day of her miserable life. As a mother, it was her directive, her instinct, to love her children unconditionally, but she knew, deep down inside, that Sherlock would never return her love because he was incapable of doing so. Lenora would sit on the cold tile floor and bawl like an infant, wondering why she even tried.

Then she heard little scuffling noises from the other side of the door, and a tissue wriggled under the door to her, and another, and another. Lenora watched the tissues make their little journey, confused and bleary-eyed, and then she clambered to her feet and opened the door, still sniffling pathetically. There stood Mycroft, sensitive and plump, looking at her worriedly and holding a box of tissues. When she saw him, Lenora burst into tears again and hugged her older boy tightly.

"Mummy," said Mycroft somewhat uneasily, "Are you alright?"

Lenora smoothed his straight black hair. "No, sweetie, I'm not alright."

Mycroft nodded, trying his best to empathize. "Tissue?" He held out his box to her, meaning for her to take one. Lenora simply took the whole box and shut herself in the bathroom once again.

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Five years later, in December of 1986, Lenora was chopping vegetables for stew when she heard yelling in the living room. She sighed and went to break up yet another fight that had broken out between her two sons, now ten and seventeen. The altercation was in the beginning stages of a physical brawl when the boys' mum stepped between them, grabbed them both by the scruffs of their necks, and dragged them both upstairs. "You two will stay in your rooms for one hour. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mum," droned the boys in unison.

When Lenora deposited Mycroft in his room, he said, "You don't need to say anything, Mum. I've already learned my lesson." He smiled and shut his own door. Sherlock made a face at said door; Lenora gently shoved the younger boy into his bedroom, and lectured him about how fighting was wrong and that he should act more like Mycroft. In response, Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

Lenora raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me? What did you just say?"

"I said," growled Sherlock menacingly, "'Leave me alone, you intolerable idiot.'"

His mother bristled. "Two hours. Like it or not, I'm still your mum."

She turned on her heel, kicking the door shut behind her. Lenora was proud of herself for not breaking down, proud he didn't see her cry, and she returned to the kitchen to resume work on the stew. As she chopped up a potato, her hands started shaking, and the knife clattered to the floor. "What the-" Lenora was afraid. She didn't know what was happening, she was scared, and her vision went blurry. Lenora felt dizzy all of a sudden, as if the room was rocking back and forth. An overwhelming, throbbing pain coursed through her head, and she fell to the floor…

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Mycroft's hour was up, and he jogged down to the kitchen to see if his mum needed help with dinner. Then, when he entered the room, his breath caught in his throat. "Mum? Mum, are you alright?" asked the teenager in a wavering voice.

The prone figure on the floor neither moved nor answered.

%%%

999 Transcript:

999- Hello. This is 999. Please state the nature of your emergency.

Caller- It's my mother. …Oh my God… When I went up to my room, she was fine, but I came back down an hour later, and she was lying on the floor. I don't know when it happened, but she's not breathing and I can't feel a pulse. She needs help!

999- Alright, calm down, calm down. What is your name? Where are you?

Caller- My name is Mycroft Holmes and I'm seventeen years old. I live in Chelsea. 50 Tachbrook Street.

999- We'll send help right away. Is there anyone else home other than you and your mum?

Caller- Yes, my little brother.

999- Alright, stay where you are, and tend to your brother, Mycroft.

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It was a massive stroke that felled Lenora Holmes. She was only thirty-seven years old. Thirty-seven and dead. If it wasn't for the solemnity of the occasion, Mycroft might have called the gentle snowfall beautiful. However, the fact that the fat flakes were coming to rest on his mother's casket detracted from it all somewhat.

Everyone there that day at Lenora's burial, minus James and his elder son, of course, was shocked by Sherlock's nonchalant behavior. He stood straight and tall, staring stoically at some point above everyone's heads, and not acting like a boy who had just lost his mother. "Poor little thing," people said in hushed whispers, "Either he doesn't really understand what's happened, or he's in shock."

But Mycroft knew that his little brother was perfectly aware of his mother's death and what it meant, and Sherlock was not in shock. He knew his mum was dead, knew she was never coming back, and knew he'd never see her again. Sherlock's ambivalence was not feigned. Though it was difficult for some to believe, the tragic, untimely death had no effect on the son of the deceased. He. Didn't. Care.

The small crowd of people soon left the gravesite, leaving the Holmes brothers alone. Mycroft wiped his teary eyes with his coat sleeve and began talking, mostly to himself, to somehow make it all seem real. "Our mum is dead. We are motherless children. We don't have a mum-"

"I knew this would happen," said Sherlock's cold, emotionless voice all of a sudden, cutting off his brother.

Mycroft couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What? You KNEW?"

Sherlock nodded. "I saw it. There were warning signs, but by the time I could see them, she was beyond help." He spoke with such casual ease, it made Mycroft feel sick.

"I hope you realize you're talking about a human life. A real human life, our mother's human life. And you don't care."

Sherlock finally met his brother's eyes, and Mycroft could see the inhumanity etched on the little boy's face, nearly tangible, very unsettling, and very real. "Would caring have saved her? No, of course not."

The anger inside him took over, and Mycroft shoved his little brother to the ground. Glaring maliciously at the scrawny little git sprawled in the snow, he muttered, "You know, Sherlock, first you think with your eyes, then your head. But never with your heart. And someday, that'll destroy you." Mycroft turned and stalked away, hands thrust in his pockets. He left Sherlock, the brother he would always blame for their mum's death, alone in the cold cemetery, beside the just-filled grave of the mother he never loved. Their differences had at last become irreconcilable, and the battle lines were drawn.

%%%

Mycroft would try numerous times to detach himself from his younger brother, but as family, he really couldn't help but worry. He had good reason to worry. Sherlock the adult was, as the psychiatrist had predicted, very dangerous. However, his only victim was himself. He smoked cigarettes and did drugs when he was bored, which was often. Sherlock was obsessed with crime, particularly murder. Unnaturally so. The sociopathic young man became a detective, and threw himself so wholeheartedly into his cases, he would go days without food or sleep. As for the brother he alienated, Sherlock came to think of Mycroft, who had gone on to become the British government, as an arch-enemy. Had Lenora Holmes lived to see her boys become men, things may have turned out differently. If they didn't, she certainly would have cried every night over what had become of the children she loved so much.

**A/N: First of all, I am quite proud of this little oneshot, and did I ever have a blast writing it. I would like to say a couple of things.**

**1. In the description of all the things wrong with young Sherlock, I took the speech delay and lacking fine motor skills from my own sister at a similar age. In several interviews that I've watched, Benedict Cumberbatch describes his depiction of Sherlock Holmes as "Aspergerish." This really hit home for me. My little sister was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, a mild form of autism, when she was two. She didn't learn to speak until she was about preschool age, and she still holds pencils funny to this day. If Dr. Barlow had been more competent a psychiatrist, he would definitely have diagnosed Sherlock with Asperger's.**

**In short, I see my sister in Sherlock Holmes sometimes.**

**2. The name "Sherlock" actually does mean fair-haired. Even in the original Conan Doyle stories, Holmes was describes as having black hair. Lenora's bedtime story was just my way of explaining how the kid got such a misleading name.**

**3. The scene in which Lenora has a good cry in the bathroom was very interesting for me to write because I started to feel her frustration and sadness, which is really great for a writer to feel. The part in which Mycroft pushes tissues under the door is taken from a real-life story about Princess Diana and the young Prince William, when Lady Di would cry in her bathroom because of Prince Charles being an all-around scumbag, and Prince Wills would give her Kleenexes by sliding them under the locked door to her.**

**4. The address I gave for the fictional Holmes residence, 50 Tachbrook Street, is quite real, and only a few blocks, as I understand it, from Oxford University. I didn't select it at random. The part of London just north of Chelsea is called Belgravia. Season two of Sherlock will be starting with an episode called "A Scandal in Belgravia." Hello, Irene Adler!**

**So, I hope you enjoyed reading about poor Lenora, and reviews make me happy, so don't hesitate to hit that button. **


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